


Confessions of a Fallen Drama Queen

by Duck_Life



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Gen, Protective Sam Winchester, Sick Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets sick and doesn't know how to handle it. Sam helps. Oneshot. Please R&R!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions of a Fallen Drama Queen

When Sam steps out of his room, the stagnant emptiness of the bunker surprises him. Dean went out a while ago to see Garth, and Sam surmises now staring at the vacant room that Kevin must’ve gone with him. Cas, however, he can hear shuffling around in the bathroom on the right.

“Hey,” he calls out, stepping forward but wary about just walking in on him- enough bad experiences in the past couple of the months have warned him otherwise. Except that when he gets to the door he realizes it’s locked, and there’s a towel shoved up under the bottom of the door. “Cas, you okay?”

“Don’t come in,” Castiel replies, panicked, and Sam abruptly runs through a list of possibilities, all of them ridiculous- Cas is smoking, Cas is burning incense (okay, maybe that’s not so out of character), Cas found the rest of the house too chilly and wanted to keep the drafts out.

“Why not?”

“Just leave,” Cas says, sounding strangely bedraggled. “Get out of here as soon as you can. Fumigate the bunker. Don’t let me contaminate you.”

Staring at the closed door like it can give him answers, Sam sighs. “Cas, what’s going on?”

“Don’t argue with me, Sam, I know what I’m talking about,” he insists through the door. “I still remember the Black Plague, and how fast it spread. I won’t let it happen again.”

Sam blinks. “You’re sick?”

“I’ve contracted some terrible illness,” he says. “And I don’t know what it is, or how to cure it, so I need to be quarantined.”

“Cas,” Sam says, shoulders sinking as his mouth turns up in a sly smile. “Cas, I think you just caught a bug. You wanna come out of there?”

“No,” Castiel insists stubbornly, then- “Only if you’re wearing proper attire.”

“What, like- a mask?”

“Yes,” Cas says solemnly.

After a moment, Sam announces, “Okay, I’ve got a mask on,” without having moved.

“Really?” Cas says, sounding suspicious but not completely disbelieving. “Gloves too?”

“Yup,” Sam swears. “All decked out. You can come out now.”

A pause, and then the door unlocks, the towel slides away, and Cas edges out of the bathroom, dark eyes widening when he sees that Sam’s lied to him. “No,” he worries, backing away, but Sam grabs him by the collar of his too-big plaid shirt and drags him out, walking him towards the library table.

“C’mon,” he bullies, setting the wayward once-angel on the edge of the table like a ragdoll. Scowling, Cas crosses his arms and makes a show of keeping his mouth shut and trying not to touch anything. “What’s wrong with you exactly?” Sam asks, sliding into full-on diagnosis mode. He’s spent enough childhood hours taking care of a stubbornly sick Dean to know what to do.

“Grating throat,” Cas confirms, eyes roving as he thinks. “Sneezing. Nasal discharge.”

“The sniffles?” Sam says, trying not to grin for the sake of Castiel’s ego, shrunken as it is. “Alright, I know how to fix this,” he promises, turning around.

“A spell?” Cas asks.

“Old Campbell family recipe,” he says, pulling a can of Campbell’s chicken-noodle soup out of the pantry. While Cas shivers on the table, Sam dumps the contents of the can in a saucepan and flicks the stove on, rushing over to wrap a thick blanket around Cas’s shoulders. Sniffling, Cas ducks his head gratefully while Sam toddles off to find medicine. “Here,” he says, reappearing with a small cup of grape liquid.

“What is this?”

“Magic potion,” Sam says, handing it to Cas, who downs it like a shot.

“What is it really?” asks Castiel with a raised eyebrow.

“Cough syrup.” Back in the kitchen, Sam stirs the soup rapidly, then lets it simmer.

“What do I have?” Cas asks, looking more like a child than anything as he looks up at Sam from the table.

“It’s a cold, Cas,” he says, willing himself not to roll his eyes.

“Is it fatal?”

At that, Sam can’t help but smile. “No. You’ll live.”

“Oh,” says Castiel, then- “Thank you, Sam.” He glances down, running his thumbs through loose threads on the blanket, and Sam’s suddenly struck with worry about what could’ve happened to Cas had he not found them so soon after falling. It’s enough to give him a stomachache, so he disregards that train of thought and stirs the cooking soup again, randomly remembering that Cas left the bathroom light on and Dean will throw a hissy fit if he gets back and finds they’ve been wasting electricity (“It’s an underground bunker, Sammy, and you wanna just blow the power? C’mon!”).

Slipping into the bathroom to flip off the switch, Sam notices the slip of loose-leaf paper on the counter and walks back out, annoyed. “You wrote out a will?”

“I thought I was dying,” Cas reminds him, shrinking inwardly.

“And you gave everything to Dean?” Sam adds, skimming the scrawled list.

“Not everything,” Cas corrects, struggling to push the blanket off of himself in an effort to argue. “You would have gotten my left shoe.”

As Cas’s chicken noodle soup boils, Sam gives up and rolls his eyes. “I’m touched, Cas.” 


End file.
